Fighting With Goliath
by hpswst101
Summary: Inspired by Robert Lewis Stevenson's novel "Kidnapped!" David Balfour is a lawyer and his newest client is trying to fight for his freedom to speak what he wants, even as the British try to control everything happening in Scotland. Reading the original novel is not required to understand this story. Short multi-chap. Cover image belongs to Homero Ruiz. Please read and review. TY!
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer: I do not own David Balfour or his wife Catorina. Both of those characters belong to Robert Lewis Stevenson. I was just presented with the opportunity to research the Proscription Act of 1764 and further David's story in my own way for a class project. I hope you enjoy the story. Comments and constructive criticism are always welcomed.**_

 **Chapter 1**

Young Allen Balfour was juggling his thick grammar school books of basic arithmetic, Latin and English. Each one being a few good pounds heavier than Allen would have liked.

His mother would surely be at home baking some bread and singing songs to the infant Ursula but he was already on track to his father's work. His father's firm was a two-room venue. The front door opened into a quaint foyer with a rack to hang up coats and jackets and a writing desk off in the corner for Mr. Balfour's assistant to work and greet his clients. When Allen visited sometimes he was allowed to help as George, the assistant, would often remark, "Now that you are eleven, you can start helping me by…" and would task him with whatever needed to be done. Allen liked George because unlike his father's previous assistants, George actually made him feel like he was helping and doing something productive for his father.

Opening the door to his father's firm, Allen was not greeted with George sitting at his assistant's desk with a pile of papers in front of him. Instead the desk was closed and seat still tucked in from when they had closed on Friday. George rarely ever left his "seat of power" and not having his usual smiling face unnerved the boy. It was a rare occurrence that David would let his assistant's have a day off and that would only ever happen when there was a critical and important case that he was working on. This left the foyer unusually quiet as a roar came from his father's private office alerting Allen that the firm wasn't completely abandoned. The sudden noise almost made him drop his books on the cold, hardwood floor.

"Well that's not our problem, ye ken."

"It is our problem as long as the English still rule over us." His father sounded upset and angry. For a brief moment Allen had to wonder if it was smart to be here and be caught eavesdropping with his father so upset. A large sigh came from the other room and the squeaky sound of loose floorboards as someone paced in the room. "I want to help you. I truly do and the only way I can do that is if you let me! It will help speed up our time together if you tell me what happened. I am your friend, so treat me as such and let me help you." There was a short pause before his father continued with a light, "Now, you went to Martin's Wynd for supper at 7 o' clock?"

The other voice spoke, now calmer with a deep voice. "Aye. We were getting hungry and it was just off of Landmarket." Their tones had become calmer now and setting his grammar books on George's empty desk, Allen slowly started to sneak his way over. He would worry about his father being angry with him later. This person must be a noble or a general to have made his father give George the day off, the thought of being so close to such an influential person brought a mischievous smile to his face as he slowly started to creep down the hall.

"So explain to me how you got into a fight with Thomas Baker."

The other man huffed quietly as he formed his thoughts, probably trying to remember what was first and then second in the chain of events. "There were five of us, me wife and the three _bairns_." _Bairns_? Allen had never heard that term before. Maybe the person was a foreigner? But the accent sounded vaguely familiar, something similar to one of their servant's… John's voice.

"What are their names?" Allen could hear his father start to write out the notes as the other man talked.

"Me wife's name is Aileana. My eldest is Donella, she's thirteen, me boy is Jamie at eleven and me youngest is Georgiana at nine." There was a moment's pause as David wrote down the names before gesturing for the story to continue. "After ordering some food. I said to my children, ' _Mi seilbhich ionndrain radharcach sibh fa'smhor'_ which means, 'I have missed seeing you grow up.' Donella turned to me with a silly smile and asked me, 'Papa, where did you learn that language from? Is it from the Americas?' My children didn't know Scotch. The language that I had grown up speaking with was not being taught to them." The Highlands! That's where his voice came from! But why was his father working with a Highlander and why would he send George away for that? Allen was starting to debate with himself if he should risk peeking around the corner to look into the room and potentially be caught, or just content himself with listening by the office door and looking at the shadows in safety.

"I'm sorry to hear that," David had stopped writing and had given his full attention to his client. "The few pieces that I have heard have always sounded pleasant to my ears. What happened after that?" Allen could hear his father procure another sheet of paper and re-dipping his quill so he can start writing again.

"Well it turns out that Mr. Baker had overheard my sentence. Someone hit my shoulder and I was expecting the person to be from me regiment so you bet I was very surprised to see an unfamiliar man at me shoulder, the smell of alcohol falling from his mouth. He was barely able to slur out in that ugly English voice, 'Stop talking. It's treason against the King and Parliament to speak such a language.' Now, Mr. Balfour, I've been in the military for most of me adult life. I have fought the battles and watched good men die for 'the King and Parliament's' causes and still I canna wear my plaid unless on the field. I canna even speak to my bairns in our home language because they don't understand it. And I'm not going to let a drinker, English or no, tell me what to do."

"Then why did you do it, Mr. Macgregor?" He asked in a calm and unassuming tone as he finished writing.

The Highlander laughed, "I stood up. Now usually when I stand up the conflict goes away but this one? Aye, he stood there glaring at me great frame. I told him, very gently mind ye, that I was with me family and that we would appreciate it if he would leave us alone to mind our own business in whatever language we chose to speak in. He didn't like me answer and startin' cursin' and yellin' at me and me family about things I would nah want to repeat before such an esteemed person like yourself." Well there went that idea of the man being nobility from a clan. "So, I hit him and looking back at it now, I should have left it like that. But I couldn't. I had to sing. It was a song me father taught me that his father taught him. So, I sung it in me proud native tongue and I decided to pull out me family's dirk that I had hidden in my coat. I wanted my children to see that we didn't have to be a subordinate to the English. As it turned out, that punch had killed him, or the fall from the punch did, and me children got to see their father behind bars instead.

"That's what happened, Mr. Balfour. The University should be happy to have so easily collected a specimen for them to cut open and display on their lecture tables." There was a loud and tired sigh. "Why am I being persecuted," he asked in a resounded voice, as if he already knew the answer and just wanted to make sure it was right, "When I was just standing up for meself and me country by disposing the worthless body?"

David was quiet before softly answering, "You are being persecuted because he is dead and while that may have been easily pushed under the rug because he is a man without any family, home or good reputation, you had decided to sing. You had sung in front of a dozen witnesses. 'I am Niall Macgregor!' Let me sing my family song in my native tongue and brandish-banned weapons as a cause to rally." His father's voice was growing stronger and sterner. "You may have been able to get away with it if you had done it up in the Highlands but here, in Edinburgh; you have the English to deal with. You can't be making those moves and expect to go unchecked."

The sound of a chair was pushed back as the room was suddenly full of Macgregor's footsteps as he paced back and forth in the small room. Now, undeniably curious about the man, Allen decided to peep around the corner. The first thing Allen noticed was the Highlander's face as being colored the same shade of red that matched his beard. He was dressed in black trousers and a dirty linen shirt with a black waistcoat, his head almost touching the ceiling. "Then what do you suggest I do? Apologize and let meself have a public whipping for punishment?"

"Mr. Macgregor," David spoke in a low tone, wary of heating up the Highlander. "What you need to understand is that the English persecution, in your particular case, has nothing to do with justice and everything to do with the preservation of English power. Waving the family weapon makes you proud and it informs people of your heritage, which you take strength from and absolutely terrifies the English. It's why you decided to join the military? So you can still wear the tartan and connect with your heritage? The English are fine with that as long as it's not turned on them, and you turned on them. Holding the weapon and singing in Gaelic is equivalent to wearing the plaid off hours and in public, it taunts them. It becomes not about nationalism but insurrection. The colors and patterns have their own rebellious meanings, just like the language and the weapon. For them _it is_ rebellion. It is reminding them that they haven't broken us yet and I, personally, would rather keep it that way."

The giant of a man stopped pacing, his head almost touching the ceiling. "You want to keep us as inferior men?" His voice was dangerously soft and Allen was surprised not to see a weapon in his hand.

"The more we rebel, the more we fight back against them, the harder they're going to fall on us and restrict us till there _is_ nothing left. If you're trying to be a martyr and cause civil change, this isn't the way to go."

The man snorted and fell back into his chair, unsatisfied. "I just want things to go back to the way they were before Culloden and the Jacobites."

"Aye." David agreed quietly, turning his attention back to the paper in front of him and making a mark. "We lost many good men during those years. Why did you seek me out for your advocate?"

"Because ye helped me clansman, Dougal, when he was tried for wrongly stealin' from Mr. Smith. Ye won his case when everything was stacked against him. I figured ye can help me in the same way."

"Except Mr. Macgregor, your clansman was framed. He did nothing wrong according to law. You don't have that same luxury so you need to listen to me and follow my advice if we're to stand a chance." His father started to move out of the chair and Allen darted back to the other side of the doorframe, watching his father's shadow move. The long shadow became ever bigger as David's footsteps came closer to the door leading into the hallway and the foyer. Not willing to risk being caught by staying there, Allen bolted from his space on the floor to the firm's front door in a quick and terrified speed that made the schoolboy forget his books on George's desk. Just closing the door and placing his head against the cold wood as his heart pounded into his ears, he didn't hear his father's soft footsteps. The front door unexpectedly opened and Allen, having braced himself against the door trying to catch his breath, promptly fell over, tumbling to his father's feet with a red and guilty face. He was caught.

 _ **Author Notes: I do not know Scottish Gaelic, how I got my translation was through a dictionary and not an official translator. If anyone does happen to know Scotch Gaelic and can translate that one sentence for me, that would be great. Thank you for reading and please review!**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Allen had never been in a courtroom before, he actually knew very little about the British legal system even though his father was a prominent lawyer in Edinburgh. His mother didn't want him to come to the trial, she thought it would be better for him to go to school, but his father had shook his head. David wanted him to come, "You ask what is so special about this trial Catorina? It's special because if I can win this case than anything is possible. That the pain the Stewart Clan has gone through with fighting against the English might not have been in vain. That there is a chance for the English to revoke the Act and we can be on the right path to healing the wounds from Culloden and the Appin murder." In the end, Allen was allowed to come but only if Catorina accompanied him, leaving Ursula with her nanny at home.

His mother explained to him the large and ornate courtroom with all the various people in it and their roles in the trial. David was on the right side of the room, facing the large white wig man who was known as Judge Fraser. Sitting on either side of David was Mr. Macgregor and George. On the other side was the Prosecution, which his mother clarified as the people who are accusing Mr. Macgregor of wrongdoing. The courtroom was full of people watching and placing bets on who was going to win. Catorina was nervously embroidering a pillowcase, occasionally pricking her finger as she poked the needle through the fabric, which would leave a small red stain on the fabric that she either didn't see or just ignored.

"Mum, why are you so worried?" His parents had been nervous all morning and the anxiety was starting to chip away at his excitement at coming to his first trial. Was he supposed to be worried about Mr. Macgregor? His father?

Catorina looked up from her embroidering to meet his eyes and Allen wasn't sure what unnerved him more. The worried expression in her eyes or seeing his mother so emotional instead of her usual calm amusement, "Because he may have chosen a case that he is unable to save. Mr. Macgregor may be a good man, but the rest of his family, over the generations, has given the clan a bad reputation. The jury and judge will be harder to win because they already have ideas and biased notions about your father's client. It doesn't help that what originally put him here was because he had murdered an Englishmen-"

"But that was on accident!" Allen interrupted, remembering the man's story. "He only hit the man, he doesn't know if he was the one to have actually killed him."

"It doesn't matter Allen how the event happened, the only thing that the jury and judge are going to note down is that a Highlander killed a defenseless Englishman." His mother's sad eyes turned to the defense table. "Look at what Mr. Macgregor is wearing. Do you know what that is?"

Mr. Macgregor was in a long red coat with breeches and presumably a beige waistcoat. "He's dressed in military formal. Isn't that appropriate?"

"Not necessarily, Mr. Macgregor wanted to wear what is known as a Tartan. Because he works in the military he would be allowed to wear it but your father had to convince him out of it. If he had come in wearing his traditional Scottish Highland dress than the jury and judge were going to be making assumptions that this was the Scottish attacking the English in a show of defiance. By wearing the British military formal attire, your father is making it appear that this was not a country rebelling but a lone individual person who actually does support the English by being a loyal British citizen."

"But isn't that why he hit the other man? Because Mr. Macgregor wanted to fight back?"

"Let's pray then that he doesn't actually say that during the examination or this trial is already over." Allen was going to ask another question when the clerk banged on the table shouting to get everyone's attention to settle down so the trial could start.

The prosecution stood up, their head attorney turning just a bit so he could face the jury and the judge, while still projecting to the gallery. "Honorable Judge Fraser and Jury. We have assembled here today to present a series of crimes committed by the rogue Highlander Naill Macgregor on October 10 of this present year, just two days ago. Mr. Macgregor is being persecuted for rebelling against crown and country by having the dirk in his possession and killing a man for no apparent reason. This man deserves to be looked at critically and decisively because if one of our own military men is willing to rebel against us, then what is to stop others from also rebelling against our proud nation? We are asking the Judge and Jury to condemn this man for life in his Majesty's colonies to serve as a punishment and reminder to the Scottish people what happens when rebellions occur. Thank you."

The man sat down and Allen started to understand why his mother was so worried, this wasn't a trial on if Mr. Macgregor was guilty or not. This was a trial on why he did it and the punishment that should come because of it. His stomach gave an unfamiliar squeeze as his father stood up, his warm voice filling up the space as he started his own speech of defense.

"Thank you gentlemen. Sergeant Macgregor on October 10 was having a peaceful dinner with his family when the late Thomas Baker, who was looking for a fight, had interrupted them. My defendant was only trying to protect himself and his family from the abusive verbal attacks of the man and the coroners are unclear about the actual cause of death Mr. Baker. While the plaintiff would like to vilify Mr. Macgregor, we would like to argue otherwise. That Mr. Macgregor is a patriot, having served over fifteen years in the military, and a man who was looking out for the welfare of his family. Instead of sending the man away, we ask that the punishment be forfeiting the family dirk, a public whipping of no more than 50 lashes and a warning so he can continue working in the military and furthering our nation's border, like a true patriot, and be a role model to other patriarchs of how a father should protect his family. Thank you." David Balfour sat down and his wife and child let out a long breath of air.

Having heard the other, the two turned to each other and gave a shaky smile. Maybe David could win this battle.

 _ **Please read and review!**_


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